KJToo

Somewhere just before the two-year mark, parents typically stop reporting their child’s age in months. I had planned to report my young apprentice’s age in weeks until he legally became an adult, but that plan dropped by the wayside when I forgot to actually keep track of how many weeks old he is. I could have easily written a widget to manage that little bit of data for me, but it’s a little late in the game to go back to tracking the weeks; the last thing I want to be is gimmicky.

Kyle will not technically be thirty months old until the thirteenth of July but I suspect that, developmentally, not a whole lot will change in the next six days. On the other hand, he picks things up very quickly these days, so I suppose it’s possible that he might potty-train, count to twelve, learn to read and develop a cheap, clean and completely renewable energy source by next week. That’s just how far the Pendulum of Parental Expectations™ swings these days.

Yesterday, as I sat on the couch with a box of tissues trying to cope with an allergy attack, Kyle climbed on to my lap, looked up my nose and declared, “You got a boogie, Daddy.” He then climbed off my lap and headed for the stairs. “I get it!” he exclaimed as he ascended. He disappeared into the master bedroom and emerged a moment later, descending the stairs with a cotton swab clutched in his hand.

Laura and I occasionally use cotton swabs to clean Kyle’s nose when he has a particularly crusty cold, but those swabs are in a small box, tucked away in his room where he (ostensibly) can’t get at them. However, after watching daddy’s post-shower rituals on occasion, Kyle knows that there are cotton swabs in a jar we keep on a shelf over the toilet in the master bathroom; a toilet that he sometimes climbs when he wants to wash his hands with daddy.

So, Kyle descended with the cotton swab he got out of our bathroom1 and climbed back onto my lap. “Oh,” I said, reaching for the swab, “thank you!”

“I get it!” he repeated, and before I could stop him he jammed the tip of the cotton swab up my left nostril.

I don’t know if he got the boogie, but I managed to stop him short of drawing blood. Not, however, short of causing a firestorm of agony in my nose.

A very helpful and considerate firestorm of agony. And that made it worth the pain.

1. Time, I think, to move the cotton swabs. [back]

Posted July 7, 2008 Comments(9)

Over the past two years, my young apprentice has been a source of amusement, joy, amazement, wonder and, above all, pride. He has also been a source of frustration, befuddlement, more frustration and, on occasion, disappointment. Not disappointment in him, mind you, but disappointment in myself; in my clear failings as a parent.

I have to believe that every parent experiences moments of fear, denial and confusion when their offspring makes a choice that goes against every tenet of their upbringing. When, as parents, we witness these blatant affronts to our values, the question that echoes endlessly in our thoughts must certainly be, Where did I go so wrong?

And so it is with my young apprentice and his preference for Joe.

Yes, Joe. Not Steve, but Joe.

Where did I go so wrong? Did I not read to him enough in the first twenty-four months? Was I neglecting him in some manner crucial to his development? How can this have happened?

“Boo’s Coos!” he exclaims. “Boo’s Coos Joe!”

“How about Steve?” I ask, hopefully, poised to queue up “What Experiment Does Blue Want to Do?” or “Snack Time”.

“No!” is his reply. “Boo’s Coos Joe!”

So it is Joe that we watch. Joe in his orange shirt. Joe, whose real name isn’t even Joe, but Donovan Patton.1 Joe, who can’t even be bothered to draw in the notebook himself; instead, the clues simply appear in the notebook, then sing about themselves (”I’m scrunched up eyebrows!“).2 Joe, who, at the end of each episode, sings, “Me and you and our friend, Blue” instead of “Me and you and my dog, Blue.”3 Joe, who must, must, must somehow be responsible for the abomination that is Blue’s Room.4 Joe, who isn’t fit to sit down in the thinking chair and think, think, thi-i-ink.

Admittedly, we thirty-something parents are a little protective of our own precious memories, and the idea of our children latching on to some obviously inferior reimagining of our favorite childhood icon (e.g., Transformers Animated, Ruxpin: The Next Generation, any Star Wars film produced after 1983) chills us to the very core. But that does nothing to explain the bias I have with respect to the hosts of Blue’s Clues. The show came along well after I had stopped watching Nickelodeon (apart from SpongeBob Squarepants) and well before my young apprentice started; I had never really watched it prior to becoming a parent, and by the time my progeny arrived Joe had been the host for four years.

Despite the fact that my bias does not spring from the fear that the kids today are trampling all over my beloved childhood, I am biased. Perhaps it is basic human nature: an inherent belief that change is something to be feared and the original will always, always, always be the best.5 I don’t know; I’m neither psychologist nor social anthropologist. I am, I suppose, just a caveman, one who assumes a threatening posture and shrieks loudly whenever he hears Joe sing, “Come on in. What did you say? A clue! A clue!”

Therein lies the uncomfortable truth: there’s simply no logic to my preference for Steve. I feel a surge of hope on those all-too-rare occasions when my young apprentice says, “Boo’s Coos Steve! Geen Steve!” and a few seconds later, there he is: Steve in his green shirt. Steve, who somehow makes finding three blue pawprints a true adventure. Steve, who skidoos into a book or a painting like no one else can. Steve, whose true feelings for shy Miranda6 will forever be unspoken. Steve, who should never go off to college and leave poor Blue with his orange-shirt-wearing7 younger brother.

But all too soon it will be time for so long, and as Steve sings just one more song, I find myself fearing that the next time my young apprentice wants “Boo’s Coos” he will once again demand to see Joe, and the dreaded question will once again spring to mind: Where did I go so wrong?

1. Why the lies, “Joe”? What do you have to hide? [back]
2. More deception. Why do you even bother with the crayon, Joe? The whole thing is a giant farce with you. [back]
3. Because she’s not your dog, Joe! She’ll never be your dog! Blue will always be Steve’s dog, and I’ll bet that just eats away at you, doesn’t it? [back]
4. She talks! Blue talks! From what bizarre alternate reality did the notion that Blue talking would be a good idea originate? Are the strange beings who inhabit this universe also of the opinion that Chilly Willy, Snoopy and Charlie Brown’s teacher should speak coherent English as well? It’s madness! [back]
5. Team Knight Rider? What kind of psychotropic pixie dust do you need to be snorting to believe that could possibly work? [back]
6. Magenta’s owner, played by Shannon Walker Williams [back]
7. Joe also has a purple shirt, as well as a green one, but he is at his most duplicitous and untrustworthy when wearing orange. [back]

Posted April 8, 2008 Comments(15)

The boy is dangerous. They all sense it, why can’t you?

When Jedi padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi spoke those words to his master, Qui-Gon Jinn, he was referring to Anakin Skywalker, whose passion and anger would eventually turn him to the Dark Side.Or perhaps he was trying to warn George Lucas about casting Jake Lloyd as the boy who would grow up to become Darth Vader. That is a discussion for another time. My young apprentice has not yet started down the path that will forever dominate his destiny, but since we began weaning him off baby food and feeding him “real food”, Laura and I have witnessed the Dark Side.

I’m talking about poop. Specifically, the ever-intensifying foulness of that which darkens the diaper. In the beginning, the diaper biscuits were largely odorless, but as we slowly change the nature of what goes into Kyle’s mouth — abandoning bland jars of baby food in favor of more interesting fare like spaghetti with meat sauce, ice cream and peanut butter — so do we unwittingly change the nature of what comes out the other end.

Where the diaper change was once a thirty second affair involving — at worst — a vaguely unpleasant odor, a few moist wipes and the danger of an unexpected golden fountain, today the affair might potentially involve an eye-watering, tongue-shriveling pungence, a half-dozen or more moist wipes, a kicking, flailing child whose mood changes from unbridled glee to unrestrained outrage and back four times in as many seconds, and the danger of an unexpected golden fountain.

Diaper changes are often preceded by a faint odor that inevitably leads to a period of denial, wherein the parent who must ultimately perform the task attempts to assure the other parent that the growing stench is “just gas”. To be fair, Kyle does seem to be propelled by rapid-fire flatulence at times. As with most denial, this is a defense mechanism, for with every diaper change there is also the threat of that most disastrous and unpleasant event, the Blowout.

The Blowout is exactly what it sounds like: the capacity, fit or structural integrity of the diaper is exceeded by the viscosity, volume or sheer tenacity of that which fills it, resulting in failure of the containment field. When this happens, plasma is vented into space, Yes, it’s a euphemism. There are only so many times I’ll use the word “poop” here. necessitating special hazardous materials cleanup processes. It ain’t pretty.

Thankfully, there is more life with my young apprentice than the occasional journey to the Dark Side of the Diaper. In early January, he made a sudden transition from crawling around on his belly to pulling himself up on furniture and “cruising” around the living room, dining room and anywhere else he could get. The amount of stuff he could reach tripled and end tables were no longer safe havens for keys, iPods, cell phones and the like.

Right around the time Kyle started “cruising” he also, much to our surprise, began climbing stairs, which necessitated the use of a second baby gate in the living room (the first preventing a fall into the downstairs hallway). Now, when it is time for a diaper change, a bath (one of his favorite activities) or a nap, Laura and I simply remove the second baby gate and follow Kyle upstairs. He has not yet learned that sometimes a climb up the steps means it is time for a nap (by far his least favorite activity).

As Kyle’s mobility has increased, so has his curiosity. The farther an object is out of his reach, the greater the lengths he will go to retrieve it. Objects with many buttons are particularly alluring, as the connection between pressing of buttons and something interesting happening is one that Kyle made several months ago. The object he most desires is the remote control, and if it is on the back of the couch or on the bookshelf near the couch, he will climb over Laura and myself to reach his prize.

When not attempting to steal the remote control or “pet” the cats, Kyle researches new ways to foil the latches on our kitchen cabinets. His library is vast, and he will sometimes roll around in a pile of Richard Scarry, Dr. Seuss and Sesame Street books, much like Scrooge McDuck in his money bin. While the wealth of knowledge at his disposal may not help much in the realm of breaking and entering kitchen cabinets, Kyle has learned much about the BTFD (Busytown Fire Department), the challenges inherent in keeping oversized pets, the folly of trying to touch the moon, and the ticklishness of crocodiles; information which will undoubtedly prove valuable in years to come.

The next big adventure for Kyle will be walking without hanging on to a couch or coffee table. As with most of his advances, I have mixed feelings about Kyle walking. I am at once excited to see him learning and growing every day and saddened that it seems to be happening so quickly.

Just this week, Laura and I stopped giving Kyle a bottle before bed, and I felt strangely wistful when I put him to bed. I miss cradling him in my arm as he drinks the day’s final bottle (which, in the past month, had become the day’s only bottle). I’ll miss his Army-style belly crawl when he starts walking, and I’ll miss his enthusiastic chanting of “dada” when he really starts to talk.

I won’t miss changing the Diaper of the Dark Side, though. Not one bit.

Posted March 6, 2007 Comments(7)

My young apprentice has been free from the uterine hoosegow for three hundred and sixty-five (consecutive) days, a milestone we deemed worthy of celebration. As is customary on such occasions, there was cake.

There were also friends and relatives, who came bearing gifts. The earliest gift of the day, however, arrived at approximately 8:45am in the form of a technician from Time-Warner who brought high-speed Internet access to the International House of Johnson. Oddly enough, Kyle seemed far more interested in his new V-Tech Smartville Alphabet Train Station. Perhaps another three hundred sixty-five days will change that… or perhaps not.

Posted January 13, 2007 Comments(0)

It’s been a while since I wrote much about my young apprentice. Contrary to some ugly rumors, this is not because we keep him confined to the crawlspace beneath our living room.The name “crawlspace” certainly implies that this area would be ideal for Kyle, given his current mode of transport. Nonetheless, he remains blissfully unaware of the space and its grisly history. Laura and I have had some discussions as to when Kyle should be made aware of it. Laura seems to think that I’ll send him in to retrieve various stored items as soon as he is able to walk (a reasonable assertion, as I have to fold myself in half to maneuver through the crawlspace). I, on the other hand, am of the opinion that the existence of a hidden room beneath our feet is something that ought not be revealed until the boy is old enough to appreciate the threat of exile to said space when he misbehaves. He lives among us, exploring his own personal microcosm (which is approximately eighteen inches high and spans across the living room, dining room and kitchen), except on those occasions when he rides atop my shoulders, something he enjoys a great deal, if the shrieks of delight and excited fist pummeling my cranium are any indication.There was an unfortunate incident involving rather a lot of vomit and my cornflower-blue shirt last week. Kyle didn’t seem too bothered by the contents of his stomach suddenly spilling out onto my shirt and pants, the wall and carpet in three distinct hurls, but I learned an important lesson: when it sound like he’s gonna puke, it’s probably because he’s gonna puke. Also, don’t put a sick boy on your shoulders; he may puke.

Until recently, the Xbox, DVD player and home theater receiver were all within Kyle’s microcosm, protected from his eager little fingers by a baby gate across the front of the entertainment closet. We were all too aware that those little fingers were capable of reaching through the gate and pressing buttonsKyle is particularly fond of turning on the Xbox (which pleases me) and he removed the shuttle knob on the DVD player (which didn’t please me so much).but I put off addressing the situation until last weekend, when I was watching Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip and Kyle began cycling through the surround sound options. He flipped from stereo to all-channel stereo to Dolby Digital to orchestral and so on, and so I scooped him up, plunked him down in the Pack-n-Play and spent an hour and a half wrestling with the tangle of cables necessary to connect the various components to one another. The end result: Kyle will not be able to reach the Xbox until he is able to stand; the remaining components will remain out of his range until he is five or six years old.

After the cable-wrangling was complete, we watched The Incredibles and then played Marvel Ultimate Alliance for a while. I’m somewhat embarrassed to admit that Kyle figured out how Spider-Man’s web-swinging ability works before I did. This shame is only somewhat alleviated by the fact that the Kyle-controlled Spider-Man spends much more time running into corners than he does web-swinging.

Speaking of super heroes, one of Kyle’s favorite toys is a plush Spider-Man with flat, rubber, chewable hands. Kyle has been teething on and off for several months, so anything that can be chewed will be chewed, and Spider-Man’s wacky hands are perfect.

Just yesterday, Kyle was introduced to another super hero: Batman. Miscellaneous G™ gave him a two-foot tall Batman pillow, complete with cape. Batman is a bit taller than Kyle, and he looks very stern, but the important thing is that he’s soft and cuddly (not exactly the image the Dark Knight was going for, I’m sure). Check him out…

Kyle was very pleased with the gift. The only thing he needs now is his own Robin costume. A billionaire benefactor wouldn’t be bad, either.

Posted December 20, 2006 Comments(6)